


F - like a fearful Faramir.

by HASA_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Characters - Good use of minor character(s), Characters - Strongly in character, Characters - Well-handled emotions, General, Multi-Age
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-14
Updated: 2007-03-08
Packaged: 2018-03-22 21:42:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 1,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3744545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HASA_Archivist/pseuds/HASA_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Alphabet of Middle-earth:<br/>Writing Cues for the "Back to Middle-earth Month 2007"<br/><br/><br/>"The Alphabet of Middle-earth" is a series of short cues to inspire you throughout B2MeM. We invite you to pick up any cue, any time and to post your take as a comment for the relevant entry at the LiveJournal Community "There and Back Again".<br/><br/>Write a drabble, a drouble, a tribble, a quabble or a quibble! Write 100, 200, 300, 400 or 500 words! No matter if it's serious or silly, anything goes.<br/><br/>And here is already the next cue:<br/><br/>F - like a fearful Faramir.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Blooded - by Raksha

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at [HASA](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Henneth_Ann%C3%BBn_Story_Archive), which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact The HASA Transition Team using the e-mail address on the [HASA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hasa/profile).

  
  
  
  
Ten in all, of ages between seventeen and nineteen, the newest recruits of the Ithilien Rangers spoke in soft, excited voices as they cleaned their newly bloodied blades. 

"I can name my sword now that I blooded it with my first man," boasted a young man with broad shoulders and a broader grin. "I will call it Red Flame, for it struck as if with the fire of Anor itself!"

"And you were lucky that the one you struck was looking the other way at the time, Mablung, you big ox," A smaller lad scoffed. "My sword is my grandfather's, and already named, but I shall call my bow Dragon-Breath now. She will shoot down hundreds of Haradrim!"

"Did you see my stroke?" Asked a tall boy whose head was bandaged. "I nearly cut a Southron's entire arm off while I was slaying him. I think he was an officer!"

A few paces away from the other fledglings, the youngest and tallest of their number huddled in a corner of the cave, holding a long knife in bruised hands. He was Faramir of Gondor, son of the Steward of Gondor, brother of Boromir, whom men already called The Bold. And today, this moment, Faramir of Gondor strove to hold himself together; fearing that if he let go, he would start to shake and cry. 

Boromir should have told him. Boromir had said that he would feel proud to strike down the enemies of Gondor. Faramir felt proud to have come out of the battle alive, but he felt no pride in striking down the Haradan. He had slain two, one with an arrow from twenty feet away; and the second in close battle. 

Faramir felt a tremble starting up in his chin and quelled it. The fight had been brutal and swift, wrestling, clawing, like animals rather than men. Faramir had been ready, knife in hand, when the Haradan had leapt upon him; and he had just stabbed and stabbed until his foe had coughed up his life's blood onto Faramir's gray cloak. No artistry nor courage, merely his own quickness, his refusal to die, had saved him. And then, pinned beneath his enemy's body, he had looked into the dark-eyed, swart face and known that this Southron was close to him in age. 

He had wounded another two or three before the battle had ended, but others had killed them. 

Afterward, Faramir had not been sick, unlike a few of his comrades. He had felt numb and tired, and had gone through the proper motions of helping the wounded, obeying his commander. And now, he was haunted by the sound of the Southron's gurgling final breaths, the terror in the youth's eyes and then the quivering end of him. 

Someone had asked Faramir if he wanted a drink. He had taken it, not really knowing if it was water or wine. What he wanted to do, then and now, was to run away, flee back home and take up his lute again. But such thoughts were utter folly. He was born to lead men in battle, not run away from it, such was the payment of the privilege with which his high station had gifted him. A lord must set the example, not defy it. Desertion would be an insult to the brave men who bled to defend his land. Nor could he sit in some safe post behind the walls of Minas Tirith while others braved the lengthening Shadow. 

He looked down at the dagger.  No matter how often he wiped it clean, it never would really be free of blood.  He would have to rend and slay with it, and the sword, for the rest of his life, such was his duty while their Enemy sent men and monsters against them. And the Enemy showed no sign of withdrawing His intent to advance, to encroach and eventually to conquer.

__

It isn't fair, some part of Faramir wailed inwardly.  _But only children and fools expect real life to be fair_ , said another part, which was possibly his father's remembered voice. He was a man now. 

__

A life where he could choose his battles, where there was no Enemy to demand his constant service, was a dream that he must put aside.  Faramir felt a childish sniffle trying to break, and tiredly, rudely, wiped his nose with his blood-stained sleeve.  _Might as well wish us all back on Numenor_ , he told himself, _with no foes but our own arrogance_. _Might as well wish for Elendil to sail up the Anduin with a host of Elves, or the King to return, driving all foes from the realm_! 

"Faramir, do you sleep?" Mablung was saying. "I asked you, what will you call your sword?"

He forced a smile. "My sword is already named, 'twas used by my father when he first went on campaign." It had been discarded after a year's use, for a worthier blade, Faramir remembered, though he preferred not to say so. It was only fair that he should begin his service with a blade that needed to win honor as much as he did. "But I will name my dagger, which saved my life today by taking another, the truest name I can give it:  Slayer." 

Mablung guffawed, then clapped Faramir on the shoulder. "Well, 'tis not a pretty name, but sharp as its blade. May your dagger live up to its name!"

Faramir nodded, hoping he did not deceive even in so small a gesture. He could not speak, he would not speak, of the greatest fear to assail him. He was a soldier of Gondor now, a member of the Ithilien Rangers, the bravest company in the realm. Soon he would face the Enemy's troops again in battle. His comrades might fall if he was slow to shoot or strike!  Faramir bowed his head to hide the tears that began to pool in his eyes. What if he could not bring himself to kill again?


	2. Fear - by Dwimordene

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Alphabet of Middle-earth:

`Tis a grey morn. Fog throngs in the City's lower circles, flows over the fields. Faramir's gaze drifts to the shrouded river, to the blur of Ithilien beneath the Mountains of Shadow. Soon he must return there, and he doubts not what he should find.  
  
Orcs. Easterlings. Haradrim. Spy birds and creatures whose eyes glint at night, watching him and his men. One grows used to such. One forgets oftentimes that life had not always been anxious. One grows  
used to everything. Anxiety becomes a familiar. It lives in the gut and in the blood, lies smooth beneath the skin, thrumming there like a lover. Anxiety pricked sharp by war strikes men sometimes so, and laundry after battles is subject to bawdy jests.  
  
But inevitably, there comes a break with the expected lot of life: anticipation cannot tame all, and the present comes crashing in sometimes, even often, to upset it. The familiar recovers its frightful malevolence.  
  
The air trembles over misty fields: a long, deep note sounds, staining the silence, again and again. Faramir stiffens, his face whitening. _Boromir?_  
  
But `tis gone. Dread descends in its wake—fear has got free, as the future tips out into a void…


	3. Night Terrors - by Gwynnyd

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Alphabet of Middle-earth:

Prompt – F like a fearful Faramir

**Night Terrors**

In the dark, still hours of the night Faramir started awake, blood pounding in his ears and sweat slicking his body.  He gasped once and swallowed against the dry hardness of his throat.  Forcing himself to lay still against the resilient feathers cushioning him, he closed his eyes to the shadows and listened.  Éowyn, for once undisturbed, breathed easily next to him, her lips puffing out gentle exhales.  The cicadas had ceased their nightly buzz and a few desultory cheeps showed that dawn was still a distant promise.  Faramir, still gripped with the premonition that had woken him, heard nothing else no matter how hard he strained.

If that fool woman had closed the door in a misguided attempt to give Éowyn more rest, he would flay her.  Slipping cautiously off the bed, he saw the door to the nursery propped open, with a faint glow of the night candle within, and quickened his step. If the nurse slept, he would strangle her with his bare hands.  He paused in the doorway, his hand gripping the frame.  On this warm summer night, no fire burned in the hearth, but the candle showed the nurse quietly hooking a length of wool in her hands.  

_He sleeps,_ she mouthed, her lips curved in a smile for his folly.

Faramir approached the net-hung cradle and gnawed his lip at the sight of his son.  Healthy, happy babes could die in the night without warning.  Not his son, not tonight, not yet… _Not ever,_ he told himself firmly.  The perfect bows of Elboron's lips pulsed in a dream of eating, and his eyes moved under their fine dark-fringed lids.  One hand had worked its way out of the swaddling and lay out flung on the sheepskin that cradled him.  Faramir gently touched the tiny, perfect fingers with their pink shell-like nails and the hand clamped down on his finger with the strength that always surprised him.  The boy drew the tip of Faramir's finger into this mouth and sucked vigorously.  Making a moue of frustration, he spat the finger out and opened his fine blue-grey eyes to stare accusingly at his father.  The small face started to crumple.

"Nah, nah, my son, no need to cry," Faramir soothed him as he slipped a hand under him and pulled the babe up into his arms, carefully supporting the boy's head to carry him to Éowyn.  


	4. Fearful Faramir - by Dean Maia of Este

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Alphabet of Middle-earth:

Fearful Faramir

  


Faramir went through the preparation exercises his combat Master taught, willing himself to calm. He was not trembling, as he was when he first realized what he had to do. In preparation, he shifted his tunic and combed his fingers through his hair.

  


Boromir appeared, walking toward him with the unstable grace of the teenage. "Faramir, why did you stop? We have to be there."

  


"I had to get ready."

  


"Are you really so afraid to talk to Father about what we did?"

  


"Father did not send for us. It was Nanny."

  


Boromir stopped and went into the preparation exercises.

  


Dean Maia of Este


End file.
